Page 72 of Fat Arranged Mate
A smile touches Diane's thin lips. "So she does care. Interesting."
"If you've hurt him—"
"The Guardians are handling him as we speak." She checks her watch. "Probably over by now, actually."
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down, refusing to show weakness. Think, Sera. Think.
"We know what you are," Diane continues, pulling on latex gloves with practiced precision. "Or at least, what one of you is. The question is, are you both monsters? Or just him?"
An opening forms—narrow, risky, but present.
"Test me," I challenge. "Whatever you think we are, prove it."
She produces a syringe filled with clear liquid. "Silver nitrate. Diluted, but effective. Painful for humans, fatal for shifters."
"You're going to inject me with silver?" I inject appropriate horror into my voice, mind racing. "That's insane! You could kill me!"
"If you're human, you'll experience temporary discomfort. If not..." She shrugs. "Problem solved."
The man steps closer, watching with interest. "Never seen one tested before."
My medical knowledge flashes to the forefront—silver nitrate, topical antiseptic, potential for allergic reactions in humans including anaphylaxis. Symptoms: flushing, hives, respiratory distress.
"Wait," I plead as Diane moves closer with the syringe. "I'm allergic to most metals. This could—"
"Convenient excuse," she interrupts, swabbing my arm with alcohol.
I force my breathing to quicken, eyes wide with genuine fear. No acting required there. "Please, you're making a mistake. We're not what you think. We're—"
The needle pierces my skin. Fire races through my veins as she depresses the plunger, the burning sensation entirely real. I've had silver before, during the worst of my old pack’s cruel punishments. The pain is familiar, excruciating. But I know I’m resistant to it.
I use it.
Gasping, I arch against the restraints, allowing genuine pain to fuel my performance.
"Can't—breathe—" I wheeze, forcing my face to flush with exertion.
Diane steps back, observing clinically. "Interesting reaction."
I strain forward, making retching sounds. "Allergic—need—epinephrine—"
The man frowns. "She doesn't look good, Diane."
I convulse deliberately, managing to tip the chair slightly. My medical knowledge becomes my weapon—I know exactly how anaphylaxis presents. The labored breathing, the facial swelling, the panic.
"Check for hives," Diane orders, reaching for another syringe, looking a little doubtful now. "Pulse too."
The man approaches cautiously, pressing fingers to my neck. "Fast. Really fast."
"Untie her arms," Diane says. "Check her for a rash and swelling. It could be a normal immune response—or she really is a shifter, and this is—”
The moment my right wrist comes free, I force a violent convulsion, knocking his hands away. While they're distracted, I slip my hand into my pocket, fingers closing around the small medical scissors I always carry. A healer's habit that might save my life.
"Hold her down," Diane snaps, filling another syringe—epinephrine, I presume.
The man grabs my shoulders, leaning close. I go limp for two seconds, then explode into motion—head snapping forward to connect with his nose. Cartilage crunches. He stumbles backward, blood spurting.
In the chaos, I slash through my left restraint with the scissors, then lunge for my ankles. Diane recovers, grabbing for the radio at her belt.
